


In the Face of Death

by expectopatronuts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, but i'm a bad judge of that kind of stuff, people have told me that this is sad, so also bear that in mind, so let me know what you think, this is shockingly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 19:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11607813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuts/pseuds/expectopatronuts
Summary: Dusk is when the line between the world of the living and the world of the dead becomes diffuse, a door opens, and it is possible to pass on, as mortal man, to the realm of death. According to myth, a hero would be able to bring a soul back, striking a bargain with the god."I'm no hero," whispered Draco. "Forgive me."





	In the Face of Death

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of information that might come in handy for this story:
> 
> ·Myrddin is a legendary Welsh figure, introduced into Arthurian legend by Geoffrey of Monmouth as Merlin the Wizard.
> 
> ·Y Ddraich Goch translates into English as 'the Red Dragon'. In myth, it fought against a White Dragon and triumphed. The story was then adapted into a prophecy made by Merlin, according to which the victory of the Red Dragon was a symbol of the victory of the Welsh over the Saxons.
> 
> ·Galehaut is a knight in the Arthurian legend. Related in the "Prose Lancelot", his story is one of sacrifice, as he gives his power, happiness and, ultimately, his life, for Lancelot.

·◊◊◊·

A hero, they called him.

Resourceful, intelligent, brave, loyal.

Empty words for the life that had been lost in a trickle of red.

·◊◊◊·

A minute of silence, and Draco raised his wand, casting _lumos_ up at the sky.

·◊◊◊·

The last light of day was fading. People filed out of the graveyard with whispered words, the rustle of cloaks, the scrape of dress shoes on dirt.

Draco stood tall and proud. For him, because he would have expected nothing less and his silence would have been praise.

His mother, next to him, held her chin high.

Out of respect for the recently discovered saviour of the wizarding world, the insults were silent. Looks, sneers, shakes of the head, baring of the teeth.

Outcast. Filth. Traitor.

The Malfoy name was in disgrace. Maybe it would be his downfall, as it had been his father's. Draco knew he had become prey. It was the new order of things, and there is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast.

The agreement was unspoken. Side by side, they waited, statues carved on marble. Mother and son, their hands so close that Draco could feel the faint heat of her skin, and her magic flowing underneath.

But he didn't reach out, because he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys are flint, nightshade and frost.

·◊◊◊·

Draco wasn't sure how it had begun.

He remembered the tap of his father's cane between his shoulder blades.

"Stand straight."

He remembered his mother, hesitating in front of him, wanting to embrace him.

Instead of putting his arms around her waist, Draco brushed his lips over the back of her hand. "Mother."

He remembered Severus' soft steps descending the staircase, his face pale and grim and tired but his eyes always sharp.

Instead of running to him and letting himself be picked up and burying his face in the neck of his robes, he remained standing, as though at attention. "Professor."

It hadn't always been so.

·◊◊◊·

Draco's patronus was a robin, so small that it could fit in the palm of his hand. He was the second Death Eater to be able to cast a spell so unmistakably _good_ , and he had almost drowned in the relief that he wasn't yet so wretched as his father.

But it had taken time, and his master in the matter had not been a patient teacher.

"Focus!"

The word had been flung at him hundreds of times, snarled. Scowling, gesturing, sneering, taunting, Draco had endured it all, holding fast to the knowledge that if this lonely, hurting man could conjure a patronus, so could he.

"But I don't have a happy enough memory," he had said one day, after only managing to produce a puff of white mist, a drop of sweat trailing down his temple, almost caressing.

"Happiness is a luxury we cannot afford," answered Severus, and his languid baritone betrayed a hint of an unknown emotion.

"So what do I do?"

"You feel."

And so Draco had. He had stopped searching consciously for memories, and instead sought catharsis.

·◊◊◊·

Severus' silence had been his praise when the robin flitted about the room for the first time.

"Thank you," had said Draco, blinking back tears. The magic felt so pure, untainted, in his chest. "Thank you."

Same as his mother had hesitated before him, he hesitated before the Potions master, wanting to _show_ him his thanks, because words couldn't be enough.

"You have nothing to thank me for," said Severus, turning away, looking out at the snow falling, silently, outside.

But he did. Because Severus Snape had provided him with one of the most powerful memories he had.

·◊◊◊·

He must have been five or six.

Back then, the soft rug that covered the floor of the corridor leading to the guest rooms had been his favourite place to go to when his father had important visitors for tea and ordered him to get out of the way.

He used to lie on his stomach, imagining the walls of Camelot on the embroidered golden patterns of the rug, murmuring battle cries and orders and spells invented by Morgana in rituals too awful to put to words. And one day, a shadow fell over the battlefield and the forest beyond, and over Draco's outstretched fingers and his silver hair.

The man in black had been an intermittent presence in Draco's short life. He was very quiet when he came to dinner, and when he spoke, Draco always suspected his words held layer upon layer of meaning.

He had never looked at him for too long, never spoken to him. Not only because his father had instructed him not to, but because of an instinctual fear of what his eyes would hold or what hidden meaning his words might reveal. He had never been told his name, or who he was.

That day when the man's shadow fell over him, he saw his black boots on the edge of his vision and looked up. He saw his eyes, dark, inscrutable, and he knew. He pushed himself onto his knees and spoke in a whisper.

"You're Myrddin."

The man gave him a very strange look, then shook his head and smiled wryly.

"I'm Severus," he said, in an equally quiet voice, as though he suspected the private nature of the conversation. "Myrddin is, I believe, long dead."

Draco pushed his hair back from his forehead.

"He's not," he assured the man. "And you look like him."

Severus, then, to Draco's surprise, sat on the floor next to him (something in his ankle, or his knee, cracked). That was the gesture which set Severus apart from all other adults in Draco's life, forever. Adults stood stiffly, regally proud, or sat on comfortable armchairs by the fire. They never sat on the floor, because their joints cracked and their backs hurt and the floor could be dirty, and they had matters more important to attend to than the ramblings of a little boy. But now Severus (Myriddin) sat next to him and traced the pattern of the rug with a long, stained finger.

"How do you know how Myriddin looked?" he asked, and his voice held none of the scorn Draco's father reserved for his stories and games.

"I don't," said Draco, his face solemnly serious. "He's a shapeshifter. He was a woodcutter, and a beggar, and then a beautiful boy and an old man with a white beard."

"I am none of those things."

And he was not, Draco could see.

His face was thin and sallow and angular, his cheekbones prominent, framed by strands of limp, black hair. His nose curved like the beak of a falcon, skin pulled taut and pale over the bridge. Under dark brows, his eyes were cool, like pools of black water, intelligence shinning deep within.

But Draco could _see_.

"You are all of them," he said simply.

Myrddin (Severus) arched his eyebrows.

"If I'm Myrddin, who are you?" he said, his voice gently mocking. When Draco looked up at him, he realized he was mocking himself, the corners of his mouth quirked up in a little, sad smile.

"My name's Draco."

"You're Y Ddraig Goch, then," said Severus, the Welsh a harsh contrast with his careful diction. "The victorious dragon."

There was a pause and Draco reflected for a second on the statement.

"That doesn't make sense," he said. He raised a hand towards his white-blond hair to prove his point. "I'd have to be the White Dragon. The one who lost the fight."

"I don't think you're one to lose a fight."

·◊◊◊·

_I am Y Ddraig Goch._

And the silver robin sprouted from his wand for the first time.

·◊◊◊·

"You have nothing to thank me for."

But he did. He did, and he would have hugged Severus if he hadn't been a young pureblood wizard, if he hadn't learnt from a very young age that one could not run and let themselves be embraced and picked up.

Instead, he grasped the older man's hand in his own and brought it to his lips. It wasn't merely the shallowly respectful kiss of well-mannered purebloods; it was a fervent pressing of the knuckles against his mouth, exhaling through his nose against the skin, and raising his eyes before his body to meet Myrddin's.

"Thank you."

·◊◊◊·

Malfoys are flint and nightshade and frost. But in the face of death, there is a feeling that thrums deep in every vein, in every drop of the blood that carries your life, and what was frozen thaws and water drops insistently somewhere inside the body.

And the heir of the Malfoy name, Y Ddraig Goch, caught hold of his mother's wrist, and his mother, who had hesitated all those years ago, wanting to embrace him, pulled him to her until he could feel her heart beating against his chest.

"He loved you, Draco," she whispered in his ear.

Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, caressed her son's hair, the back of his head. It had been almost ten years since she had allowed herself to do so. Because she was a pureblood witch of the best family, married to a pureblood wizard of the best family, and affection, when you were a Malfoy, could cost you very dear.

And she found herself choking back a sob, but in the face of death there is a pressure, buried in your chest, that expands mercilessly until something has to give, and tears fall.

It had been almost twenty five years since Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, had cried. Not since, after a year of her engagement to Lucius Malfoy had passed, her cousin Sirius had run away from home and silent, hot tears had come with a deep sense of grief that would never leave her.

Because while the night led to the day that would complete the traditional cycle plus one, enslaving her forever, her cousin was free. He had been brave enough to take hold of his own life through a defiance that she no longer possessed, that had been trained out of her, like a dog.

She would grieve for the life that could have been every single day for the following five years, until the moment she realized that she carried a life inside her, the life of her son.

·◊◊◊·

"No. It's my final word."

Lucius Malfoy, head of the household, had shards of ice in his throat. They made him speak in that uncaring tone, to everyone, always.

In bed, they made his breath cold against Narcissa's neck when he gasped his release, always squeezing a little too hard, leaving marks on her throat, or pushing a little too deep, until her back arched in a futile try to get away.

"Please," she said, and she hated herself for it. "He's your friend."

Lucius scoffed, taking off his gloves.

"A half-blood," he said, disdain plain in his voice. "A schoolmaster."

"A good man, nonetheless," she said. "A faithful servant to our Lord." The title almost stuck in her throat.

Lucius sat on the bed, taking off his riding boots now, carefully unknotting the laces.

"I won't have my son's godfather be a pauper," he said. The ice shards were sharp and cutting. "The shoes you wear are worth more than his miserable, sorry life."

Narcissa made an effort to hide the hurt she felt on her friend's behalf, the moral offence at the fact that anybody could think so little of a human life, of the life of a man that breathed and felt and loved.

"Yes, of course," she said, instead. "You're right, love." Rarely did she use any term of endearment with him. "But he is head of Slytherin. The youngest housemaster in the history of Hogwarts. He will teach Draco well."

Lucius caressed the inside of her thigh, absentmindedly, almost petting her, and she had to force her fists to unclench. After five years, she still hadn't come to terms with how he took what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted. She suspected she never would.

"I'll think about it."

And he slipped his left hand inside her blouse, and his right went to her mouth, forcing her lips open, not ungently but demanding that she submit to him.

·◊◊◊·

Draco Lucius Malfoy was born in the pale light of dawn.

His father was away on a diplomatic visit to the Headmaster of Durmstrang.

Severus, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sweat on his forehead cooled by a morning breeze, held Narcissa's hand throughout the birth. The skin on his left hand showed a faint yellowish bruising for two days afterwards, but he never pulled away.

With Lucius' grudging consent, Severus Snape, half-blood, schoolmaster, pauper owner only of a sorry, miserable life, became Draco Malfoy's godfather.

When Severus agreed, Narcissa thanked him again and again, the collected aristocrat gone as she clutched at the front of his robes, hands shaking with gratitude because she had finally managed to bring her only ally, her only friend, into her house, where Lucius' ruled with an iron hand.

"You honour me, Narcissa," he said. His voice vibrated in his chest and she felt it on the palm of the hand that rested on his sternum. "More than you imagine." He took her hand gently and answered the unspoken question in her eyes ( _will you help me protect him?_ ). "With my life. You have my word."

·◊◊◊·

Lucius kept Draco away from Severus as much as he could, lest he learn from him the way he held his knife at a slightly wrong angle or he get too used to the company of someone whose robes, fraying at the sleeves, marked him as a subordinate to the Malfoy wealth.

Young Draco was told not to make eye contact with him, not to speak to him unless spoken to, and a sharp tap of his father's cane on his backside was enough for him to nod his assent with a murmured 'yes, father'.

At the beginning, his mother would hold him when he cried, kiss him on the forehead when he woke panting from a nightmare, read to him before bed. As years passed, tears were rewarded with a strike of the cane that first increased in strength, then in number, nightmares became a lonely battle to fight, and he read to himself, sometimes aloud, before bed.

Soon after that, he was told to kiss his mother's hand instead of hugging her every morning, and to bow to his father. He learnt from watching his father to be cruel to servants, and to be arrogant, and proud, because the Malfoy crest was on the buttons on his robes and the combined blood of the noble and ancient houses of Malfoy and Black flowed through his veins, and he was _pure_.

But despite his father's teachings, the lessons in genealogy, the feeling of power that came with issuing a command to have it immediately obeyed, since Severus sat next to him on the floor of the corridor leading to the guest rooms, something changed.

He lowered his eyes for a second when he chanced upon the older man, despite the frayed robes. He apologized for any disrespect towards him, for any word spoken out of turn when Severus took on the role of tutor and then became his Professor. He awarded him a respect that came from a much, much deeper place than the obeisances he made to his father.

Because as a boy he had known that this man was much more than his image, that he was a shapeshifter who chose his mask carefully, and that he held in his hands a power that would overcome them all.

Because he was Myrddin, and he had given Draco his true name, Y Ddraig Goch, which resonated in him when sometimes, when she forgot herself, his mother called him 'dragon'.

·◊◊◊·

And in the face of death, Draco's shoulders shook with pain that hurt so much he was sure he was bleeding out, bleeding magic and blood and something else that he couldn't put into words.

·◊◊◊·

The Unbreakable Vow was a farce. The most powerful magical contract was nothing compared to the words Severus had pronounced sixteen years ago.

"With my life," he had said. "You have my word."

And when he grasped Narcissa's wrist, Bellatrix's wand was not necessary for a thread of their respective magics to entwine, renewing a promise that had never weakened.

·◊◊◊·

And in the face of death, Narcissa held her son so tight, so, so tight, that she was sure they would both break.

"He loved you, dragon," she whispered. She breathed in, and it was a ragged sob that could no longer be controlled. "More than life."

And she knew she spoke the truth, because she had his magic inside her, his promise holding true even after death.

·◊◊◊·

In the _Vulgate_ , Myrddin is portrayed as tall, dark, and cruel.

"Severus…"

The old man was pleading. Slumped against the wall, Albus Dumbledore was begging.

Draco found himself pushed out of the way.

"Severus… please…"

But this man wasn't Severus.

He raised his wand and cast the curse, and to Draco, the silhouette, darker against dark, wasn't the advisor, the prophet, the woodcutter or the beggar. He was the shadow of a magic so terrible, it had no words.

He was the heathen, the murderer, the traitor.

·◊◊◊·

Dusk is when the line between the world of the living and the world of the dead becomes diffuse, a door opens, and it is possible to pass on, as mortal man, to the realm of death. According to myth, a hero (cunning, sharp, daring, faithful), would be able to bring a soul back, striking a bargain with the god.

"I'm no hero," whispered Draco, kneeling before the tombstone, final resting place of Severus Snape. "Forgive me." He pressed his forehead to the cool stone. "Forgive me."

Narcissa watched her son from afar. She saw his mouth move, but a breeze that announced summer carried away his words.

"You were wrong," Draco spoke to the stone, righting himself back to a kneeling position, like the first time he had looked into Severus' eyes. "I am the White Dragon after all. I have lost this fight. I have lost you."

He remained silent for a long while, his chest a blinding fury of pain. When he spoke next, his throat felt too narrow for words.

"And I was right," he managed. "You are Myrddin. That night, in the Tower, I thought I saw the Myrddin of the Vulgate. I was afraid of you. But you're a shapeshifter, and you wore a mask under the mask. You were Galehaut all along. And I was so blind."

Draco shifted on his knees and the dirt grated under his trousers, digging into his skin. He almost welcomed the pain.

"I am no hero. I can't bring you back." He almost choked on his own words. "But I will keep you safe, for as long as I live." He touched his left hand to his chest. "In here." He felt his own heartbeat. "Always."

A second of immobility, of swallowing back the cry of a child who has lost, and lost, and lost, or the howl of a dog, and Draco rose to his feet. He felt his mother's presence behind him.

"Night is coming," he said, looking down at the slab of stone, and his voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. "The door is closing."

"Yes." Narcissa stood next to him. They remained silent for a second. "You have lost more than the White Dragon ever did," she said, and somehow it didn't surprise him that she knew. "Only Y Ddraig Goch could have spoken your words." A pause. "He was always proud of you."

Draco felt tears coming to his eyes. The breeze rustled his hair, then died. The graveyard was completely still. Through the haze of pain and grief and sorrow, his lips quirked up in a little, sad smile.

Because silence had always been his praise, and while the body of Severus Snape rested now forever, in the face of death Myrddin had become the wind.

·◊◊◊·

fin


End file.
